The Gatekeeper
by Ink On Paper
Summary: He's her self-appointed guardian and he doesn't even realize it. She's just glad he's there.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Two-shot, post-ep tag for Patriot Down. So, uh, spoilers for Patriot Down. And I PROMISE to have Our Forever updated within the next twenty-four hours -I PROMISE. Much love and keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: Considered it disclaimed.**

THE GATEKEEPER

_"Even the brave may depend on someone_

_The moon only shines with the help of the sun_

_And it's not as safe when you're walking alone_

_I'll walk you home"_

Her back is straight and she speaks with a brave conviction, but he isn't fooled. Because he can see it in her dark eyes, the ghosts that are swirling within the shadows.

"They cannot hurt you now, Kaylen," her voice is quiet and he finds that he has to strain to hear her soft whispering. And he thinks, she is no longer an investigator, at least not right now. Because right now she's just a woman encouraging another woman.

_Just a victim consoling another victim_.

The young sailor just shakes her head, eyes brimming and the tears spilling over. Ziva shifts in her seat, a curtain of hair obscuring her face and he wishes right now he could wrap her up and protect her, hold her together because she must be borderline of her breaking point. He can hear it in her voice, from the tone that the familiar cadence has taken, that the memories that have been dredged up are hurting her, inflicting phantom pain and slicing open healed wounds.

_And she's bleeding all over the floor._

He hopes the petty officer has someone to pick up her pieces.

"Can I go now, ma'am?" Burrows' voice is quiet with defeat even though she refuses to reveal anything. And Ziva merely offers a curt nod in reply while he takes his cue to stand up, to escort the witness out.

_As if removing Burrows and her ghosts will make the little room less crowded._

_

* * *

_

She hears him coming, attuned to him as she is. And really, she didn't put much effort into her hiding place anyway –though this cannot be considered a hiding place. Because she isn't hiding. She's just . . . . thinking.

_There is no hiding from oneself._

She's leaning up against the corridor wall, knees drawn up to her chest, slender arms wrapped around her shins. Dark mahogany eyes are focused intently on the wall opposite her, staring into space because oblivion just may hold the answers. She looks so small sitting there, he thinks, so small and so very tired.

"Hey," he calls softly, deliberately, so she'll be aware of his presence. She doesn't say anything in response, simply blinks her acknowledgement which he takes as an invitation to join her, carefully lowering himself to vacant spot beside her on the floor. And he ignores his protesting joints, the blunt pop of his bad knee.

He won't talk to her; there's nothing he can say to alleviate the pain anyway, there's nothing he can do to erase the memories. He wishes he could just take it all away, the haunting and nightmares and scars –if only he could rewrite history. A voice deep down in him says she would never offer her burdens unto him, it's an unfair transaction, her relief for his suffering, but it doesn't stop him from entertaining that thought. He would give anything at this very moment to simply transfer her hurting to him, only for a little while and he'll give it back, just please let her rest. All he can offer to her is his shoulder, his empathy, his love.

His love.

For her.

_For you. _

She doesn't know how long they sit there in the dim light of the hallway and she doesn't really care because she isn't alone. After a few minutes, she finds her cheek pressing against his shoulder, the fabric of his suit rough on her face. She doesn't speak, opting to remain silent, finding that his presence alone is more soothing than any spoken word. She's tired of the pity anyway, of the knowing eyes that followed her those first weeks back, the guessing eyes that couldn't even begin to imagine, but gossiped quietly regardless. Concerned eyes and wondering eyes and eyes that seemed terrified and uneasy with her mere presence . . . . The staring stopped and the hushed whispering ceased when cool blue eyes extinguished the curiosity with a simple glare and bright green eyes dared anyone to even so much as look at her funny.

She never did quite find out what everyone saw different about her, never could pinpoint the physical variation.

_Perhaps the stains show through the layers of silence, cotton, and skin._

He sighs, a long slow exhale, a preamble of sorts. He does not want to ask the question, but it needs asking and he is, after all, the best candidate for the job. "Would it be inappropriate to ask you if you want to talk about it?"

Her answer is a stiff, "Yes."

"Then I won't ask." _But I'll be here if you need me._

"Thank you." _Thank you._

Someone's cell phone chirps and interrupts the conversation and lack thereof, recalling their focus to one case and away from the other, beckoning them back upstairs, demanding their presence. He rises to his feet, straightening up, and she's already standing at attention, watching him warily through dry eyes. The need to _do something _overrides the instinct of self-preservation and he finds himself intruding on her personal space, engulfing her in a hug.

She goes ramrod still, making herself all edges and angles, but he doesn't seem to care, he's holding on and not letting go. So she relents, relaxing into his chest, burying her face in the lapel of his suit, inhaling his scent, and relinquishing herself to the comfort her offers. She wraps her arms around his waist, not clinging to him, but returning the embrace and he responds by squeezing her slightly. And he's warm and solid and familiar and wholly reassuring.

* * *

He's been searching for at least twenty minutes and finds them, of all places, in the hallway outside of an interrogation is team seldom employs and, as he expected, they are together.

Tony's got her tucked against him, one hand at the small of her back, the other cradling her head to his chest. And Ziva is returning the embrace, seemingly melting into her partner, or at least resting against him.

And he feels like he's intruding on an intimate moment between the two.

He should slap them both for playing grab ass on his time.

But he doesn't and he knows damn well why.

_This is exactly what he has to protect._

_

* * *

_

**A/N: So?**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This one gave me a bit of trouble -I hope it lived up to expectations. This can be a stand-alone from the other chapter -just similiar subject matter- or it can be a continuation, once they leave the office that night. I really wanted to address McGee's question and have some protective Tony, but I honestly don't think DiNozzo would bring it up with McGee (Going, 'What the _ were you thinking asking a stupid question like that? Weren't you in Somalia?' is not very, ah, conservative.) Also, before I forget, the last line from the first chapter, about what Gibbs has to protect? He's not protecting them from each other, he's protecting them from the bad-guys and the drug ring. Anyway, just a clarification. So here we go, I really hope you like it and that it doesn't disappoint, the lyrics at the bottom are from Karmina's Walk You Home. Keep the peace and much much love, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: 'Tis.**

The heat is the first thing she notices, the sweltering heat and dry air that crackles when she inhales.

Only she cannot inhale, not deeply, not enough, her mind suddenly panicking as she struggles to draw in a sufficient amount of oxygen, instead choking on the desiccation and inability to breathe. Sweat prickles her skin, drawing gooseflesh as it trickles down her neck, down her back. She fights with her eyelids, but they don't cooperate. Her brain doesn't seem able to communicate with the rest of her body, the synapses and nerves are no longer operating on the same frequency and she's overwhelmed with the trapped feeling.

Fuzzy blackness is encroaching like a fog in her mind.

Now the hands are on her. Rough, calloused hands that leave bruises and welts, scratches and sores, skin swelling and stinging and raw. There are too many hands, unfamiliar, crisscrossing across crisscrossed skin, intruding upon places she unwillingly lets them see, touch, harm. And she wants to claw and writhe and scream, but again her body has taken leave of its ability to move, to fight, to resist. And she's forced, suffocating and terrified, into compliance as loud, harsh voices shout accusations and deal heavy blows with thick-soled boots.

The blood mingles with the sweat, vermillion rivers that stain her crimson while the metallic twang of iron and musk and hate fill her nose, her throat, her belly. And protested cries are torn from chapped lips that split and crack with resisted whimpers.

And the temperature escalates as her senses heighten and the coiling snake winds tighter in her chest as she fights for air, as she begs her muscles to just move-

Her sudden relinquish startles her as she rockets forward, jostling the bed, scrambling upright.

The air that rushes into her lungs is cool and fresh and tempered with the faint smell of rain and soap. And the vise around her chest loosens to oblivion and only the pounding of her heart remains, every pulse though painful in its rapidity.

She takes a deep breath and counts to ten, letting the captured air out through her nose slowly, like she was told to do. In, count, out, repeat. In, count, out, repeat. A steady mantra, the pattern allows her to focus herself and calm down. She leans against headboard, the solidness of the wood reassuring as soft cotton sheets whisper when she shifts her legs, willingly, unbound, unharmed. One. Two. Three. Four . . . .

The mattress groans and she feels him sit up slowly, feels the mattress relax as he does and only then does she realize he had gone rigid beside her. She keeps counting, pacing her breathing to match his.

"Ziva?" His voice is level, benign.

"Yes?" Her voice is measured, calculated, graciously even.

"Can I turn on the light?"

"Yes."

There's a muted click and golden lamplight illuminates the room, washing over her hovering at the headboard, exposing the simmering concern beneath the forced calm of his eyes. She looks fine outwardly, her hair tousled and face flush from sleep, nightgown slightly crumpled, but he can see the thin sheen of sweat on her skin, he can feel the vibrations through the mattress at her mild tremors. And she watches him appraise her warily, watches as all the residual tells do not go unnoticed.

"Are you okay?" he asks and it is ancient déjà vu.

She pauses in her counting, closes her eyes, considers this. There is no pain, no physical harm has been done to her. She is merely riding out the aftershocks of a nightmare, recomposing herself in the wake of a nasty memory. "I will be."

"Okay. Can I touch you?"

She bites her lip, keeps her eyes closed. "Give me another minute, please."

"Of course."

The silence though grows oppressive and she says, "You can talk to me, Tony."

His relieved sigh brings a funny feeling into the pit of her stomach, though not an unpleasant one. "What should I talk about?" he wonders idly, tone taking on an almost teasing quality which she is thankful for.

"Whatever you like," she replies. Then, before he can even conjure up a topic, she says, "You may touch me now." And he knows where to put his hands, how tightly to hold her, bringing her into his lap, drawing her close. She tucks her head under his chin, settling against him, making an extra effort to show her relaxation. She doesn't elaborate on her dream and he doesn't pry, merely lends himself to comfort her, stabilize her.

"Did I scare you?"

"No."

"Tony," a warning, calling his bluff.

"A little bit," a confession. "Today stirred up some stuff, huh?"

"A little bit."

He takes a deep breath, whispers, "I'm so sorry, Ziva."

And she stiffens, defenses against the oncoming pity standing at attention. "What are you sorry for, Tony?" and her voice is clipped, but not venomous, more disappointed that the one person that understands her the most is feeling commiseration toward her.

"I'm just sorry, okay? I just –I just need to be something here," he's overwhelmed, she's overwhelmed him.

Her fingers find his face, stroking the roughness of his jaw, eyes searching his, memorizing everything she finds there. "You are," she tells him, "you are something here, Tony. You are you and you are here. That is enough." And he offers her a lopsided grin, pressing a kiss into her temple.

"Thank you," she says softly.

"For the kiss? Anytime."

"Thank you," she repeats emphatically, voice quiet, level, so keen on his understanding.

"Anytime."

* * *

_Even the brave may depend on someone_

_The moon only shines with help from the sun_

_And it's not as safe when you're walking alone_

_I'll walk you home_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Well, originally I had another little oneshot type piece that conveyed a similiar plot to it, in which Ziva is the one sent in to comfort another victim -a oneshot which was nearly complete before Patriot Down was ever aired and PO Kaylen Burrows ever introduced. I went back to check out what I had written in the document I had titled It Does Get Better and decided that, with a little work, I could reconfigure the piece to fit within this storyline using Burrows and the case from Patriot Down. And here is the fruits of my efforts. Hope you like, Kit.**

**P.S. I am aware that I marked this story complete, though there MAY still be an additional part addressing McGee's comment in PD (you know the one).**

**DISCLAIMER: Yeah, there still not mine.**

"David."

She glances up as he strides into the bullpen, ubiquitous Styrofoam cup in one hand, steam and coffee smell following obediently in his wake. She quirks an eyebrow in curiosity, replying smoothly, "Gibbs."

"Kaylen Burrows. Conference room one."

Tony goes rigid in his seat, green eyes snapping up to steal a glance at Ziva, gauging her reaction, before flickering to Gibbs. His voice is that of benign indifference as he asks, "Didn't we close that case, Boss?"

"Yeah."

He frowns, unwilling to betray his need to pry, rephrasing with delicate bluntness, "Why?"

"Closure, DiNozzo."

And Ziva has already risen out of her seat, making her way up the stairs toward the mezzanine.

* * *

"Petty Officer Burrows," she acknowledges, closing the door behind her. The younger woman looks up from where she sits at the long oak table, shoulders hunched, fingers curled around a courtesy cup of stale coffee. Dark shadows have taken refuge beneath her eyes and her gaze is tempered with exhaustion and circumspection. Her lips are pressed in a line as light eyes stare defiantly up at Ziva with an intensity that is admirable.

"Agent David," Burrows responds coolly, inclining her head. Ziva draws up a chair and sits down, steepling her fingers on top of the table and regarding the petty officer with calculative dark eyes. Burrows watches the other woman's appraisal passively before asking, "With all due respect, ma'am, why am I here?"

She lets the question settle to the floor before saying slowly, voice measured, "We got them, Kaylen. We got Tyler and Randall Hammond. They are going to jail," and the sequence of emotions that flicker across Burrows' face do not go unnoticed. Fear and relief are mixed with anger and liberation. And shame.

Burrows bites her lower lip, nods her head mechanically. "Why are you telling me this?"

"So you may rest easy."

Burrows laughs mirthlessly, a short, bitter bark that erupts from her throat. "Rest easy? Agent David, I haven't rested easy since. I can't even close my eyes. And I'm on a naval ship as far away possible, as safe as possible . . . ." her voice is sharp, clipped, assertive. Delicate scabs have cracked open at a feather touch and she is struggling to recover her wounds. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Burrows lowers her voice, softens it, saying, "I don't think I'll ever rest easy, ma'am."

And now Ziva finds herself at a crossroad: Able to agree, that no, she may never rest easily again, and walk away, back to the squadroom where Kaylen Burrows and her ghosts will never bother her ever again . . . . or she can open herself up to a hideous truth and allow Burrows company in their commonality. And no matter how much her rationality begs her to take the former option, Ziva knows she cannot. Because Rule #11 clearly states _when the job is done, walk away_, but the job is not done and therefore she is not going anywhere.

"It takes a while," Ziva admits and her hand has been offered.

Burrows shakes her head, blinking, "I apologize if this is out of line, but how do you know? I'm so tired of people telling me 'It'll get better' and 'I know it's tough.' How can anyone possibly know what it's like unless they've been here? Not one of the psychiatrists has shared in this pain and yet they're going to try and tell me that everything will be okay?" A brave tear manages to escape down Burrows' cheek and she swipes it away roughly.

"Because I have been there, Kaylen," and all semblance of professionalism has vacated the premises. Burrows seems at lost for words, staring at Ziva in disbelief as she continues, explaining quietly, "I was held captive last summer for forty-three days in the company of fifteen men. Believe me, I know."

Her voice is barely audible as Burrows confesses softly, "I feel like I need to scrub myself raw, but I can't get clean."

"That too will go away, that feeling."

"When?" And it is a question asked out of desperation.

Ziva reaches across the table, wrapping her fingers around Burrows wrist, giving her a slight squeeze. "Personally, it took me the better half of two months before I was comfortable in my own skin again. It isn't that the dirtiness is on the outside, though, but the inside."

"And the nightmares?"

"Become less frequent."

Burrows falls silent once more, contemplating the other woman's words. Then, "May I ask you one more thing?"

Ziva nods through her hesitation, offering an encouraging smile, "Of course."

"My tour is over next month and I get to go home. I'm supposed to get married next December . . . . The thought of someone touching me makes me want to crawl out of my skin," and now the tears are slipping silently down her face, as she continues in a hushed whisper, "How am I going to get married? How am I going to be able to let Eric touch me, hug me, kiss me? What kind of wife, what kind of fiancé, am I going to be? I don't talk about it, I don't trust. I can't," Petty officer Burrows is now reduced to hiccupping sobs, a shaking hand covering her mouth as tears roll down her face, falling onto the tabletop.

Ziva blinks back the moisture that has gathered behind her own eyes, gathering Burrows' hand in both of hers. "Listen to me, Kaylen," and her voice is firm yet gentle as she commands the younger woman's attention. "Listen to me: It does get better. I do not know how long it will take you, but it will get better. If Eric loves you, he will not mind waiting, he will not mind relearning how to be around you. If he loves you, he will be patient and everything will come. When you are ready he will listen and you will talk and he will not understand, but he will hold your hand and you will not be so alone . . . . I am lucky. I have someone who has helped me become myself again and, no, he will probably never truly understand, but he is there and that is enough. If he loves you, just being there will be enough."

"Thank you."

Ziva bestows another smile, squeezing Kaylen's hand before standing up. "This," she says, sliding a card across the table face down, "is my home number. I'm available any time, regardless."

Petty Officer Burrows just nods, covering the business card with her hand as Ziva leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

* * *

From the director's office down the hall, three pairs of eyes watch as Kaylen Burrows stands up and gathers her things, tucking the slip of paper into her pocket. And McGee just sits there, brow furrowed, wholly unsure of what just went on in this soundless film he stumbled across. And Gibbs' suspicions are merely confirmed as he crosses the room to the door, having read the entire truth on Ziva's lips. He's not surprised either at McGee's naivety nor the fact that DiNozzo appears to have heard this story before.

It doesn't take a federal investigator to surmise as to whom has been holding her hand.


End file.
